#inkpromise

[survivics]

@inkpromise

For the most part, the day had passed with the routine she was generally accustomed to. Peace had finally been restored with the end of the Spring Break season. The leaving of tourists and partying 20 year olds had brought the return of her usual regulars who had all made themselves scarce for precisely ten days. Locals, professors, hardworking students and ephemeral free-spirits. It felt to her at least, like she could finally catch her breath after a long sprint and her regulars seemed just as relieved.

Even the shyest of them seemed glad to return to their spots in the corner booths and tables.

What had surprised her, however, was that those same customers who were almost always professors and doctors who bristled at most socializing, and were generally indifferent to other customers- they all seemed to recognize a new customer. It hadn't be an overt recognition, but even while busy with something or the other, she had noticed the way they noticed him. Kept aware of him. Not in a way that told her he was dangerous, and needed to ask him to leave , but in a way that told her there was history.

As the day went on, and the new customer remained along with a few others, she had felt him watching her with something like curiosity as well occasionally.

She had been reading through a book at the counter and making her own way through a pot of tea when one of her regulars approached her. Careful, quiet and meaningfully, Nicolette, who teaches geography, holds her gaze once she puts down her book to take the dishes from the other woman.

"Do you remember, Sakura, when I told you about the fault lines?"

The question is said in the familiar, steady tone she was long associated with the professor. Giving a nod only once she does recall that rare conversation they had three years ago when the woman suggested she have a contractor come in to take a look at the buildings foundation and roof. The dark, wise eyes of the professor shine with something like approval when she sees the moment that she knows the reminder is about far more than just architecture, the environment and geography.

"Craftsmen buildings are beautiful, but they are fragile. Mind the old faults."

With the warning given, it is not long after Nicolette leaves with an elegant turn, lingering only a second to pointedly meet the eyes of tall man with long waving hair and bright eyes when the professor passes by him, does she approach him to refill his mug. A couple questions come to mind, but none seem quite right and all seem overly nosey. So, instead, she gives him a polite smile, and a knowing shake of her head. Her voice light, and conversational. Each word unfolding like small ripples.

"It is a small town, I hope you don't take the attention personally. Locals tend to be suspicious of outsiders, even more so after all the Spring Breakers. I'm Sakura, the owner."

Letting her eyes catch on the motorcycle helmet besides him on the booth, her warm eyes find his again.

"Have you been enjoying the drive along the Big Sur?"

[softersinned]

@inkpromise

Were she honest about it, she would be forced to confess that she has not quite forgiven her nephew for his allegiances.

She understands well enough, she supposes; he's lost his father, lost much of his family, watched as his grandfather burned bridges left and right and shaped himself into a god. And in theory, she doesn't blame him: whatever connection he felt (feels) with Matthew and Diana is profound, no doubt, and being named a godfather to one of Diana's children, having that child bear one of his names... well. In theory, she gets it. And in theory, she's gracious enough about it, because a scion is still a part of the family and it wouldn't do for Madame de Clermont to show such blatant favoritism.

But she is neither so gracious nor so understanding in practice as she is in theory. Her communication with Gallowglass has been limited, her time spent in no small part cleaning up the messes made by her brother-in-law and his troublesome wife. She has only begun to reconcile Marcus' defection, but his, she understands. Better to place some measure of distance between a carrier of blood rage and a man dedicated to wiping out any threat posed to the family. She has yet to forgive Gallowglass. She has yet to determine if he even thinks he needs to be forgiven.

Still, when duty calls, she answers. Astoria lets herself into Gallowglass' home in Prague with all the entitlement of her rank and the familiarity of a friend, that simmering anger pushed aside in favor of what she's been asked to do. And when the door opens and the lord of the manor himself appears, Astoria knows that it's no shock (no doubt he could smell her here, no doubt he's already prepared for dealing with her) but she smiles brightly all the same, as though her mere presence is a delightful enough surprise to overcome any rudeness in a bit of friendly breaking-and-entering between family.

(There is a message in it, too: no entry is denied to me, not when family is concerned. It is, for once, not meant as a threat, merely as a reminder. Even if he's chosen Matthew and Diana, he is still under her protection, and Baldwin's. And he is still family.)

"I brought wine," she says by way of greeting, holding up a bottle and nodding towards the case of it she'd deposited on the floor beside where she sat. "I hope you don't mind that I let myself in. The weather was wreaking havoc on my hair." And then she smiles, really smiles, and she softens in spite of herself. "You've been silent, sweet thing. More silent than usual. Are you alright?"

[survivics]

@inkpromise

Wiping the ink off his hands onto his heavy cotton apron Niall pulls away from the witches and vampires gathered in the apothecary for a botanical print workshop. Approaching the viking who he had only ever known from the stories of his parents, and the blonde vampire's fathers, it should feel a bit like meeting a legend. However, despite his size he only sees a man that looks at the gathering of witches and vampires with something like longing.

Approaching him slowly, he speaks in a quiet velvet, holding out his indigo splotched hand to a room in the back.

"Glad you came Eric. Apologies for the invitation from owl. Winnie isn't quite used to deliveries like she used to be."

Guiding him to the back of the apothecary, past carefully organized storage and into a cozy atrium with a clear pool and misters over many free growing plants, he approaches an old work table and pulls out a covered box. Moving to the side to let the man look at his leisure.

"I was going through my things and found em'. Your father had asked me if I ever found anything of your sire to reach out. My mother- Ciara, had hidden them under the board in the attic of my father's shop. Good thing she did. I sent the more lovin' ones directly to Fernando. Figured the last thing you'd want after a long journey was to see your father's barróga agus póga. Can I get you something to drink?"

[vallorouslly]

[ mess ] sender leans in to clean something off of receiver's face

memes - always accepting! - @inkpromise

Logan often got sucked right in to his own world when he was tucked away in his garage working away on his truck, the old rock music blaring and included him singing every so often when he searched for a different tool out from under the open hood. He often had a rag tucked in the back pocket of his pants to wipe off any remnants of oil or anything like smears of dirt or grime in general which often came off the vehicle parts on his hands.

What he hadn't been expecting was to turn and find Erik wandering his way in to the garage and Logan realized he hadn't really shown off his babies: his truck and his motorcycle. Just as he turned down the music and offered a smile to the massive man wandering closer, the blonde stopped moving when a big bear hand came up and gently swiped away a spot below Logan's eye on his cheek, hearing something about a smudge of grease there, and careful not to get it in his eyes. He felt like perhaps his soul left his body at the way the other's hand curled around his cheek to keep him stable as he'd done so, not using just his thumb in the action as a whole. It was...strangely intimate.

Logan was momentarily speechless at the feel of that touch but he hoped he adjusted quickly.

"Yeah, oops." He says with a smile and a chuckle, taking the rag out and wiping the spot and on his forehead near his hairline for good measure. "You wanna look around? Go for it." He didn't need a babysitter to wander the meager garage anyways. "There's some beer or sodas in the fridge back there if you want anything."

[vallorouslly]

❛  stories like this can't come true.  ❜

oh no feels - always accepting! - @inkpromise {xx}

"Stories like what?" Like this? He wants to ask but feels he has absolutely no right to. Not that he's ever questioned Erik in how he chooses to live his life, but sometimes it all seems so natural in the evolution of things so sensitive like feelings.

Surely Erik has felt it too, a subtle shift yet so heavy like tectonic plates...everything has changed. He's allowed himself to fall a little too fast this time. Now he's paying for it, in this questioning atmosphere.

Erik helps keep the loneliness at bay. Brings the light back in.

"Anyone can choose the lives they lead nowadays, Erik. Who they become, how they chase their happiness, who they love..." It feels like a loaded weapon and yet Logan drops it hesitantly, waiting for the other to get up and leave. "Stories like this come true every day." He whispers, barely able to even flick his eyes up and tentatively hold that gaze that takes his breath away. "What matters is...is this part of yours?"

[vallorouslly]

@inkpromise hit the heart!

Logan hadn't been surfing since he was a teenager. But when Eric asked if he wanted to go on a nice summer day, perfect for it, he couldn't say no. The thought of getting back on the board seemed to be too much fun.

But even now as they discarded their shirts and took the boards into the waves, Logan didn't feel too uncomfortable around Eric, showing his scars. He didn't know why...but it wasn't a bad thing. However, Logan learned very quickly that it wasn't as easy getting back into the flow of things. He wiped out more than he managed to ride an entire wave. It all ended in a lot of laughter.

For the moment, he straddled his board and simply floated in the water taking a breather, the occasional wave rocking him around as he watched a bunch of surfers enjoying themselves, wondering if Eric was even capable of wiping out. Maybe he'd have to tackle him for that, get even.

[vallorouslly]

@inkpromise hit the heart!

It had been entertaining to say the least, watching the might that was Eric try and maneuver into the go cart, but it was also a bit of a squeeze for Logan too. Whatever snickering he was doing was internal, at least.

But even as they got up at the starting line, Logan smirked over at Eric, already feeling his heart pumping like it always did when he would do this with his sisters every year at their beach retreats. "Winner buys beers?" Not necessarily saying he'd wipe the floor in this, he didn't know Eric's skills yet in tiny cart racing.

Then that light went green: Logan floored it. The adrenaline rush of competitiveness hit but he didn't care. It was a good feeling, and he got that toothy smile on his lips either way.

[vallorouslly]

“ let me see the wound. ”

memes - always accepting - @inkpromise

"It's fine, really." Logan murmured, trying to keep the other from taking his hand from its protective grip close to his chest. "I thought it was doing better but I was wrong. If you have a first aid kit, I can just go to the bathroom and patch it up."

He exhaled and wondered if he'd be able to get out of this. Sure, it had started scabbing over but he'd flexed his hand just right and now...he didn't want anyone else to see. And he felt a little sheepish with Eric, considering the man was formidable to say the least.

Finally, Logan took a deep breath and reluctantly extended his hand, palm up, for the other to see. The result of a stupid kitchen accident. He waited to be reprimanded, or to hear some form of harsh word, but he didn't really think Eric to be the type.